Page 91 of Dead Rockstar

“I…”

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked with a smirk. He hooked an arm around my waist. “Fuck if I’m going to let you get rid of me that easy.”

“Oh, Phillip,” I breathed, and threw myself into his arms.

Those strong arms closed around me, and for a moment everything else fell away. I could hear shouts – Lee, who had picked himself up from the hallway floor, and Tess, who had seen Phillip and immediately moved toward the door, a somewhat confused Jason Langley, who was trying to block a seriously pissed off looking Nathan “Ollie” Green, who had changed out of his business casual attire, from ripping Tess apart, and Sloan, who had jumped up from her chair in the corner and was pleading with someone.

I didn't register any of them. Phillip. Phillip. Phillip. I could smell him, feel him, and he was so real. How could it have been barely twenty-four hours since I'd last laid eyes on him? It had felt like a lifetime. And here he was, with me, holding me tight and I was damned if we’d ever, ever let each other go again.

But he was here to stop me. And I couldn't let him do that.

I pulled away from him, feeling the ache in my chest, unable to look at him but finding it hard to look away. I smiled and he smiled back. His face was full of so many emotions – fury, confusion, heartbreak, relief – but most of all, it was full of love. “I'm sorry,” I whispered, leaning up to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. “I love you so much. But I have to do this.”

“No. You don't,” he started, but a shadow in the hall stopped him.

Guthrie emerged from the hallway, holding a stack of papers in his left hand. In his right, he held an old, tarnished looking gun, which he pointed casually at Phillip, as though he was showing it to him at an antique fair. “Nice to see you, Phil. Been a long time. But first thing's first. Stormy, come over to the table and sign the papers. And then your friends can be on their way. Unless...” He smiled, his cold eyes meeting mine. “Unless you've changed your mind.”

“No,” I said, pulling away from Phillip and walking over to him. “I haven't.”

“She's signing her fucking life away,” Lee said, his voice full of bitterness. “For you.”

“And for you,” Sloan reminded him. “And me. For all of us.”

“’Cept for me,” Tess chirped bitterly from the corner. “She don’t give a fuck about me.”

“It's just paper,” I said, my eyes on Guthrie, who was still holding the gun, making me seriously uncomfortable.

“No, it isn't,” Lee said. “It's magic. Those kinds of contracts are a whole other kind of binding, Stormy.”

“Don't do this,” Phillip warned. I’d never heard him sound so desperate, so scared. “Please don't. There are other ways we can-”

Guthrie was still pointing the gun, and dread pounded in my ears, a sense of foreboding thrumming along with my heart. The gun was going to go off…it was going to hit someone…it was inevitable. I could read it, right there in his dark, ugly aura. I needed to make a move and do it fast.

“No,” I said firmly. I grabbed the pen and stack of papers from Guthrie's outstretched hand, looking into his pale face. I couldn’t control the laugh that bubbled up from my lips. “A blue Bic pen? Didn't you know that Phillip Deville, the sexiest fucking rock star on the planet, once famously signed his recording contract in his own blood? And this is the best you can do? How embarrassing.”

I put the papers down on the wooden table by the wall with a flourish and braced it with my hand. I clicked the pen and bent down to sign. Guthrie stood over me, his shallow breaths moving my hair. I wished he'd back up. I could feel the eagerness coming off him like magnetic waves, the darkness of his aura hovering over me, mingling with mine like an oil slick on warm ocean water, making my stomach roll over. No time to read the contract. Fuck it, it was now or never.

I put the pen to the paper. I scrawled out a shaky “S.” Then all hell broke loose.

Phillip was on me in a second, pouncing down upon me, ripping the paper from my hand and tearing it in half. He wrenched the pen from my fingers and snapped it in half, too. Then he turned. It was just a moment – his arms, raised, moving toward Guthrie, who had slunk back against the wall, his voice shouting, his oddly pale eyes flashing, his aura pulsing, and then a loud bang. My eyes widened, still fixed on Guthrie, shrunk against the wall, holding the gun out from him, the gun which he'd just fired, the gun he'd pointed at Phillip...

Then there was another, even louder bang, and I hit the floor.

Twenty-Five

“Stormy.” Sloan's voice, full of tears, was near my ear. “Fuck, Stormy, come on. Wake up. Wake up.” There were other voices, too, all of them frantic and scared.

“Give her a minute. Just one more minute.”

“What are we going to do? If she doesn't wake up, we need to call an ambulance, the police...”

“Just give her another minute.”

“Goddammit, does she ever eat?” Sloan again. “She's wasting away. I never see her eat. No wonder she faints at the drop of a hat...”

Then a voice, blissful near my face, full-throated and defensive. “I tried to give her some of my steak. I tried to buy her a Big Mac. It's not my fault I fell in love with a fucking vegan who lives on coffee.”

“You could have taken better care of her-”

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